


Dancing with our Hands Tied

by Unitedcows184



Series: Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Furtive Festivity Donor Fics [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Deleted Scene, Gay Bar, Love Confessions, M/M, Requited Love, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Stag Night, The Sign of Three, Unrequited Love, drinking buddies, gay bar scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 21:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12780102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unitedcows184/pseuds/Unitedcows184
Summary: Everyone knows that Sherlock knows ash, most of all John. But what doesn't the army doctor know about his best friend?“This just isn’t my scene, John. It’s that simple.”“Oh, really?”“Yes, really. If I were to take you to my sort of bar, you would find yourself the fish out of water, so to speak.”I stood up and extended my hand, before thinking better of it. Sure, I’ll moisturize his lips, but I don’t need to be holding his bloody hand. “Fine then. I would love to see what your kind of pub could possibly be.”This fic was gifted to a donor of my short film, Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Furtive Festivity. Those who contributed $10 or more  commissioned a Sherlock fic with the prompt of their choosing. Thank you to Tia for the prompt.Check out our indiegogo page at the link below!https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/sherlock-the-adventure-of-the-furtive-festivity#/





	Dancing with our Hands Tied

“I know ash. Don’t. Tell. Me. I. Don’t.”

  
I roll my eyes, then shake my head at the accompanying dizziness. When was this guy going to quit bragging about his knowledge of ash? When you’re that tall, with cheekbones of a runway model and a deep, smooth voice that could rival any East German woman’s, why would you feel the need to overcompensate so much? Maybe it’s daddy issues, or fake sister who killed your dog who was actually your childhood best friend issues. What? Christ, I must really be pissed. What a load of shite that is.

  
Okay, now he’s swinging punches.  
I step up and grab my floppy detective and remove him from the imminent danger that is ‘other people who don’t understand why cigarette ash is so important’. I sit him down on a nearby bench outside the pub. He looks up at me like a kid in school who has wet his trousers, desperate for salvation. I hope he doesn’t cry.

  
“I know ash, John.”

  
I sit next to him. “I know you do.” I rub a hand over my face and check the time. Just about half past nine. Looks like my stag night will be wrapping up early. Oh well. There’s always next time.

  
“John. My lips.”

  
Trying not to think about those, actually.

“What about your lips?”

  
“They’re chapped. I’m dehydrated from the cheap beer, and it’s rather chilly and windy out here, and I have been licking my lips a lot…”

  
I did notice that, believe it or not.

  
“So what do you want from me, Sherlock? I haven’t any lip balm.”

  
“I do. Front left pocket. Grab it for me. My knuckles are sore from that altercation I just had.”

  
He presents his milky white, unmarred, freshly manicured hands to me. But who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth. He stands up and I plunge my hand unceremoniously into the man’s front pocket.

  
“Wait, I think it’s actually in the back left.”

  
I keep my right hand in his front pocket, in case something turns up, and put my left hand in his back pocket. I’m digging around quite a bit at this point. Can’t have the man’s lip spilt, not with how much he bloody talks.

  
“Perhaps it’s back right.”

  
At this point, I have both my hands in Sherlock’s back pockets, and my less than impressive height has me at eye level with the straining top buttons on his bespoke shirt. I look down at his chest. Huh. Absolutely hairless. How about that.

  
“Get a room, you poofs!”

  
“Oi, watch yourself, mate!”  
It’s the guy from earlier, so I remove myself from Sherlock’s pockets and give the guy a two finger salute. A small case of lip balm creeps into my field of vision.

  
“My mistake. It was in my coat pocket.”

  
I take the container from him and gather some balm onto two fingers. I gently apply it to his lips, as I have done so many times before.

  
“I can’t believe I’m at my stag night, ready to marry a woman, and people still think I’m gay. It’s just unbelievable.” I take extra care to moisturize the corners of Sherlock’s mouth and then gently finish by swiping multiple times across that cupid’s bow in the center. What a strange, alluring, transfixing mouth, now buttery soft from the high end balm. I wonder why I find myself so often staring at these pair of lips long after the man has finished talking.

  
“I think that’s enough, John.”

  
I step back and sigh. Too much and not nearly enough, my mind supplies. We sit next to each other back on the bench.

  
“I know I’m prone to disputes. I regret if it ruined your night.”

  
Though he seems to have sobered up in the intervening moments, I wonder if Sherlock Holmes has just directed at me an apology.

  
“No worries. I suppose I’m not cut out for the pub anymore. I’m not as young as I once was.”

  
“Quite right.”

  
“Well, it’s not like you fared so well at the pub tonight. Maybe I can’t drink as much as I used to in my army days, but at least I know how to throw a punch.”

  
“This just isn’t my scene, John. It’s that simple.”

  
“Oh, really?”

  
“Yes, really. If I were to take you to my sort of bar, you would find yourself the fish out of water, so to speak.”

  
I stood up and extended my hand, before thinking better of it. Sure, I’ll moisturize his lips, but I don’t need to be holding his bloody hand. “Fine then. I would love to see what your kind of pub could possibly be.”

  
He stands up and lifts his hand to an empty street. “I’m sure you will love it.” All at once, five cabs skid up to the kerb. They crash into each other, horns blaring, but one pulls up in front of the pileup. I stand, mouth agape, as Sherlock opens the door to the undamaged taxi.

  
“Coming, John?”

  
***

  
We drive for a good while to the other side of town during which time I sober up considerably. The cabbie slows down in front of an unassuming grey building with tall, steel doors. Sherlock hops out the door, leaving me to pay as usual. He quickly pops back in and pays the cabbie.

  
“Sorry I skipped out. Force of habit. Wouldn’t be proper for you to pay on your own stag night.”

  
He exits the car and I follow slowly, stunned. Yet another apology from the least contrite man I’ve ever known. I am beginning to worry that my anger towards Sherlock after the Fall may have irreparably damaged our friendship. It took me some time, but I came to accept the necessity of Sherlock’s actions and have since realized how grateful I am to him that he has saved my life unfailingly, in so many ways, time and time again.  
Sherlock beckons me to the door.

“Now the name is kind of cheesy, but it’s left behind from when this place used to be a strip club. Don’t worry, we won’t be seeing any nudity tonight.”

  
I shrug at him sheepishly. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t exactly mind that. It is my last night of freedom, after all.”

  
Sherlock often looks at me like he knows something I don’t, but this time, there is an added layer of mischief.

  
“Don’t speak too soon, John.”

  
And then, Sherlock pulls the doors open and I’m struck dumb by the hot pink and blue neon sign reading ‘Bangers and Mash’. Sherlock walks briskly ahead of me and is suddenly embraced by the buff bouncer.

  
“Sherlock! It’s been too long.”

  
“Just a few weeks, Raymond. Had to get back to work.”

  
They end their hug, but this ‘Raymond’ character’s hands remain on Sherlock’s shoulders. I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate that.

  
“Just so you know, Jack’s working tonight.”

  
Sherlock beckons me and I take my place at his side (like always).

  
“Not to worry. I’ve brought someone with me. Come along, John.”

  
I wave stupidly at the bouncer and follow Sherlock into the club. A sea of fit, dancing men move to the thrum of the heavy bass music. The walls are lined with intimate booths and couches filled with men chatting and laughing. Sherlock moves effortlessly through the crowd and I follow, struggling to keep up. Eventually, we find a vacant booth and sit down, staring at anything but each other.

  
All of a sudden, I feel as though the man I once considered to be the only person in the world I could understand is a complete stranger to me. I can’t manage to speak to Sherlock, who is casually tapping his feet along to the music and looking out onto the dance floor. He looks surprisingly at ease.

  
“Sherlock.”

  
“Mmm, yes, John?”

  
“This is a gay bar.”

  
Sherlock turns to me, a bit exasperated with, I think, just a hint of sadness?

  
“Very astute, John.”

  
Infuriating, he is. “What are we doing here?”

  
“You said you wanted to see what my kind of pub is, so…”

  
I swallow, and stare intently at a scuff mark on the floor, deliberating. Could Sherlock really have just offered up this information to me so effortlessly? Has he really just answered the question I have been pondering for years now?

  
Just as I am about to pick my jaw up off the floor and say anything remotely supportive or accepting, an alert goes off on Sherlock’s phone. He checks the screen, the bright light creating dramatic angles on his face.

  
“Time for another drink. Want to head up to the bar? I’ll save the seats.”

  
I’m ashamed how grateful I am for the out. I stand and reach into my pocket to retrieve my wallet before I’m packed into the dense crowd at the bar.

  
“No need to pay. Just say my name up there.”

  
I nod stiffly and turn around. I trudge up to the bar, trying not to think about why I’m so jealous of the young, male couples dancingly joyfully with one another while I’m at my stag night alone with the only true friend I have in the world who has decided to let it slip to me so nonchalantly that he might be gay (when it’s too late).

  
No, not too late. That’s not what I meant. I just mean… later in our ‘acquaintance’ than I would have expected. That’s all.

  
I decide as I get to the bar that I might be in real trouble right about now.

  
The situation calls for Drinks with a capital D. I want to show Sherlock I am more than comfortable being here, so I spot the biggest, most colorful drink a patron is enjoying and order two from the bartender. At the mention of Sherlock’s name, a few of the surrounding bartenders eye me up. The bartender I order from hands me the drinks, evidently named the Orange Pippi Longsnoggings (Christ).

  
“Nice of you to finally stop by, John.” The man giggles to his coworkers and shoos away my attempt at a tip.

  
“Nonsense. Anything for Sherlock’s guy.” He winks and turns to tend to another customer.  
I make my retreat from the bar back to Sherlock and focus on not spilling the frothy orange drinks.

As I near Sherlock, I look up and see a stocky, blonde man hug a seated Sherlock. Sherlock whispers something in his ear and the man shakes his head and smiles. He bids farewell to Sherlock and gives me a nod as I approach and sit across from my most confounding friend.

  
It’s Sherlock’s turn to avoid eye contact with me. He seizes the drink and takes a long sip through the thick green straw. “I love this drink. Excellent choice. Just let me enter its ABV into my phone.”  
Sherlock stares at is phone far too long and intermittently takes a sip of his fruity beverage. As I fester and threaten to overflow with questions, I look down and see that my glass is almost empty. The bartender from earlier brings over two more drinks without a word. I take a long pull from the glass. That really goes down smooth.

  
“So, who was your friend?”

  
Without looking up from his phone, Sherlock replies, “Hmm?”

  
“The short, blonde bloke you hugged earlier. The one with the green jacket and the brown jumper and the grey-blue eyes and the weathered face and the steady hands and the…”

  
“Jack. His name is Jack.”

  
Jack. Real original.

  
“And how do we know Jack?” I answer, somehow with a thinly veiled accusatory tone. What is wrong with me?

  
“I know Jack from frequenting this bar. We… spent some time together after I had returned from Serbia and before you started speaking to me again.”

  
I lean back, relaxed. I get it now. “Oh, so you just had him assist you with cases before we…”

  
“Got back together?”

  
“Reconciled.”

  
Sherlock laughs softly at my stern tone. He looks down and shakes his head. “No, John. Jack and I didn’t have that sort of relationship.”

  
I tense and narrow my eyes at Sherlock, who, for some reason, seems to becoming more and more amused.

  
“What sort of relationship did you have?”

  
Sherlock looks around, incredulous, at our surroundings. The throngs of men, the heavy dance music, the ‘flamboyant’ drinks. “I’ll leave you to your deductions, John.”

  
It’s just like when you know something big is about to happen, but you’re still surprised the moment it becomes true. It’s like wiping the layer of grime off your glasses and finally truly seeing what you’ve always been hoping to see. It’s like a broken soldier home from war being swept up by a breathtaking madman and never being the same again, never being sane again.

  
“Sherlock. You’re gay.”

  
I have never seen him so soft and settled. Has he ever laughed at me this much? “Indeed, John.”

  
“Why did you never say? Did you not feel—did you think that I…?”

  
“Relax. I know you’re a tolerant man, John. But I also know how determined you were to assure people you and I were not in a relationship. Since there was no chance of me being with anyone at the time, I saw no point in adding fuel to the fire.”

  
A short, olive-skinned man approaches Sherlock, inviting him to dance. Sherlock turns him down, more gently than I’ve ever seen him. Where’s the man who scolded Mrs. Hudson for sniveling at the threat of a bullet? Who called a dominatrix ‘boring’? Who broke Molly Hooper’s heart (again) at Christmas?

  
“And anyways,” Sherlock says, quickly brushing off his suitor, “I imagine those rumors will cease now that you’ve got Mary. Perhaps it’s time I found someone as well.”

  
I want to hug him, throttle him, reassure him, but all I can say is, “I thought you were married to your work.”

  
Sherlock puts his drink down on the table looks at me like he is finally going to participate in the conversation. “When did I say that?”

  
I gulp. You rather showed your hand there, Dr. Watson. “At Angelo’s. The night we first… the night of the stake out.”

  
“Oh, well what can I say? I was younger back then, John. Things have changed, as you know. I mean look at you. You’ve gone from dating a new woman every week to being engaged. Can you not imagine I’m capable of some growth as well?” And there’s the cool, harsh tone I’m familiar with. I slink back in my seat and slurp at the remnants of my second (or is it third? I can’t recall) drink. The bartender mercifully brings us another round.

  
“I’m sorry for that outburst, John. You must keep in mind I’m not used to imbibing so much at such a rapid pace.”

  
“Why do you keep apologizing to me? Is this some kind of residual guilt from you leaving to take down Moriarty’s network? I’ve told you I forgive you. I want—I need things to go back to normal.”  
Sherlock scoffs at me, looks around the room. I can’t help feeling that we should be having this discussion and any other time or place, but at least we’re finally having it.

  
“You know, when I was off eliminating Moriarty’s operatives, it wasn’t all daring chases and impressive deductions. Certainly not interesting enough to warrant one of your most flattering blog posts.”

  
Flattering? Well, I do seem to remember describing Sherlock as everything a good person should be. I suppose that one might consider that flattering.

  
“There were lots of long nights alone in cheap motels, surrounded by people who I didn’t know, who didn’t speak the same language as me. As it turns out, most of my time away was spent on reflecting on how I got to that place in my life. And I much as I do love the work, I was foolish to think I could be married to my work.”

  
And just as when I discovered Sherlock was gay earlier tonight, I feel an overwhelming sense of dread that I was on the precipice of learning something about him, something about myself, that I was not ready to acknowledge. I polish off another drink and try to ignore the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

  
“And is that why… is that how you met Jack? Seems like a nice enough guy. You ought to bring him to the wedding.” What am I doing?

 

Sherlock smiles ruefully and looks at me, more unsure than I have ever seen him. “I don’t think so. We were together only briefly. He ended it.”

  
Patches of black briefly cloud my vision, and I know it’s not from the drinks. The drinks, however, do involuntarily take me over the edge and force me to ask a question I hope to God I don’t already know that answer to.

  
Sherlock beats me to it. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not because I left our dates to dash off to the yard.”

  
I close my eyes and brace myself. That’s not what I thought at all. All the apologies, the effort he’s gone through planning my wedding, the way he hasn’t tried to drive Mary away, the way he dove from a building, paused his life to save mine…

  
“I suppose Jack could sense that I couldn’t truly devote myself to a relationship when in fact I—“

  
“Dance with me, Sherlock”

  
He looks up at me, at first hopeful. Suddenly, his eyes close off and he permeates a hurt that I never want to see again. “John, are you mocking me?” His voice comes out so quiet, so small.

  
I choke back tears and look down at my hands fiddling on the table, a coward. I speak with the same graveled tone I used when I pleaded with Sherlock’s grave.

“I’m not married yet, Sherlock. And I just found out tonight that the man I… that you are no longer married to your work, is that right?”

  
He huffs a laugh, nods, smiles.  
I stand up, surreptitiously wipe my eyes, and hold out my hand to him. I echo the words of a former self, a man who had no idea just how much meaning those words would afford themselves later on. “So, you’re unattached then, like me. Good.”

  
He looks at me and at once I know he remembers too. I feel unsteady and lightheaded, and am immediately grounded by the oddly familiar feeling of those long, bony fingers entangled with mine. He looks down at our conjoined hands and feels at the smooth metal of my engagement ring. At once I regret all the signs I have ignored since I met Sherlock Holmes and hate myself for what we have become and what we should have been. And then, he pulls me on the dance floor. 

  
***

  
I wake up the next morning in a jail cell with the only logical person. I’m not sure how much I drank that night, but I’m pretty sure those drinks are stronger than their names let on. I can’t be certain how long Sherlock and I danced for, or how we ended up swaying together so closely, but I’ll never forget the feeling of his sweat drenched torso against mine or the intoxicating smell of earl grey, pressed linen, and him. I don’t remember which of us started crying first, but I will always remember how we held each other and danced slow in our own little world under the safe bubble of darkness and strobe lights. I think (I hope) that I remember correctly the taste of Sherlock’s posh beewax lip balm. The way he felt pressed up against me on the stairs at Baker Street. It was the best date I’ve ever had, five years too late.

  
I vaguely recall visiting a client and failing to distance myself from her recollections: “I’d love to have gone further…such interesting conversation… this is special, let’s take it slowly…” I definitely remember struggling not to look at him during those pained moments. I remember finally feeling like a team again, but feeling further away from him than ever.

  
In truth, the details of my stag night out with Sherlock don’t really matter. When Sherlock retells the story at my wedding (to Mary), he will speak of the case: the motive, the weapon, the victim, the killer. He will be enchanting, as always. He will surprise everyone, and himself, with just how human he is capable of being. He will surprise me (he always does). The lucky attendants will be privy to the inner workings of Sherlock’s magnificent brain and they will have a chance to know, even just a little bit, the thrill of being his faithful companion.

  
They will not know what Sherlock and I realized that night. They will not know that Sherlock Holmes is in love with me and that I’ve always been in love with him. And if I work hard enough, maybe someday I can forget as well.


End file.
